


The Nature of Worth

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Winning is Easy; Governing's Harder [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 23:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3913888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coin. Prestige. Respect. Love. Everything possesses its own inherent value.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nature of Worth

**Author's Note:**

> An expansion of [a shower fic prompt I recently filled on Tumblr](http://crisontumblr.tumblr.com/post/117888581723/aeron-alistair-shower-go). The hardest part was figuring out why standing showers would exist when you only ever see bathtub-like basins throughout Ferelden. Then it sort of dawned on me that if anyone is going to figure out how to more efficiently move and heat water, it would be the Dwarves--and then they would totally figure out how to market such things to the aristocracy.

If Alistair is ever pressed to name the greatest treasure of the Dwarves of Orzammar, he would not immediately think of the crafting mastery they possess over stone and metal. Nor might he jump to naming their impressive recordkeeping, their tenacity in battle, or their impressive collection of ales and wines. No, for Alistair, the thing the Dwarves of Orzammar should most pride themselves in is the inventive export of indoor plumbing—specifically as it relates to bathing.

“Right. Which one was it—?”

Even with the dials marked, it still takes a bit of fiddling to avoid getting pelted with either freezing or scalding water. He isn’t entirely sure how it works—the Dwarves are protective about their crafting secrets—but Alistair is quite sure he likes it. Who would willingly go back to the toil of heating bathwater over an open fire after experiencing something like this? The time saved would be a wonder. It would certainly eat up less resources, wouldn’t it? In the long run, anyway…

_Try running that by the keeper of the treasury._

Alistair frowns. True, the nobles of Ferelden seem to be the only ones capable of affording such a wonderful invention for now, but they always like to jump at the chance of seeming charitable—even if it _is_ to rub it in the face of their peers. Perhaps if they present it as an investment…? Certainly, ready access to hot water for bathing could lead to increased morale among the Wardens—especially in the winter—and few things improve the overall functionality of recruits like high morale. There would be questions, though. Too many questions. What resources would go into these installations? From where? How long would it take? How many sovereigns would it actually require? If there are multiple investors, how much would it cost each of them?

That would be the sticking point for them, wouldn’t it? The financial cost, the fact that it is still very much a luxury item of the rich instead of a functional item of everyone else. Improving morale and being charitable are wonderful things, but they do not come free.

Alistair stands there under the steady downpour, letting the water soak into his hair and rinse away the soap. After so many weeks of bathing in cold lakes and chilly rivers, it is indeed a damn luxury. Just the presence of hot water alone—

“It’s occupied!” He hopes his voice carries loud enough over the water to whomever might be knocking—and that they go away. No such luck. “Hey—!”

“Hey yourself.” Aeron grins at him from the doorway, dressed down to her most basic clothes and a towel hanging over an arm. “Is there room in there for one more?”

“So long as it’s just you…” He disappears behind the curtain. “You know, we should really see about having a few of these installed.”

“Should we?”

“They’re convenient.”

Aeron makes a thoughtful sound. After a handful of minutes, the metal rings scrape against the curtain’s bar. A chilly little draft cuts through the steam. Alistair offers her his hand for support, a little amazed as he always is by how such slender fingers can respond with such a strong grip. Then there she is, standing almost directly under the steady stream, her white hair quickly clinging wet around her face and shoulders only a moment before she gathers it over one shoulder. Alistair lets his sight linger on the lines of Aeron’s collarbones, the gentle curve of her belly. _This_ , he decides, is quite a damn luxury, too.

Her laughter bounces off the stone tile.

“What? What’s so funny?” he asks.

“You should close your mouth before you drown,” the Elf teases, fingers gently tapping under his chin.

“Until you stop being such a wonder to look at, I’ll court the risk.”

“And this,” she replies as she takes up a washcloth and soap, “from the man who swears he’s no good with words!”

“I’m not!” Alistair insists. “You’re just obligated to pretend I am. That part was in the wedding vows, remember?”

“Oh, of course. How forgetful of me.” Aeron tilts her head left but scrubs behind her right ear. “Have you actually been in here washing or are you just using up all the hot water?”

“ _Maybe_ I was just waiting for you to join me.”

“And wasting all the hot water in the process!” She glances upward at the showerhead, drawing the cloth down her neck and across the upper half of her chest. “I’m not sure how I feel about it. Standing up to bathe?”

“A little strange at first, sure, but…think of the time we’d save in the mornings!” Alistair reasons, trying not to let the vision in front of him distract his attention. “We wouldn’t have to give up the evening bath, either. They can modify the tubs to work with the new plumbing. It’d be the best of both! And? Best part? Hot water on demand! Even in the winter!”

“Except I hear the pipes tend to burst in cold weather.”

“That’s if you don’t look after them. We’ve got plenty of good craftsmen among our number, and that’s not counting the non-enlisted staff. It won’t be a problem.”

“And the cost?” Aeron is scrubbing at a mottled purple spot on the upper portion of her left thigh. It does not disappear. “Is that a bruise or—? It doesn’t…” She presses her fingers to it. “No, wait. It’s a little sore—”

“It was that recruit’s quarterstaff during the sparring session. Remember?” Alistair frowns a little. “I keep telling you to take it easy on them. They get scared and some of them don’t know their own strength…” He sighs. Telling her to be careful with the recruits during sparring sessions; he might as well tell the wind to stop blowing. “Anyway, I haven’t actually…looked into that—the cost, I mean—but I’m certain it wouldn’t be hard to find out. Maybe Oghren knows someone we can talk to that might be able to give us some kind of discount.”

“Or maybe we could just sneak it into the agenda of tomorrow’s meeting at court. With all the bickering already going on, we could probably get the work done before they even notice what they’ve approved.”

“I considered…” He blinks when Aeron flicks soap lather in his direction. “Hey! What was that for?”

“Are you just going to stand there leering at me or are you actually going to wash?”

Alistair feigns offense. “ _Leering!_ Who’s leering? _I_ thought we were having a conversation!”

“Yes, but you are getting quite the show in the process, aren’t you?” She makes a show of using the washcloth and the twist of her hips to conceal herself. “It’s disconcerting!”

“Oh, discon—” He rolls his eyes at her. “I could return the favor. You know I’m good at—come here—”

“Alistair—!” Aeron giggles in her half-resistance. “Wait, wait—we could slip—!”

“I’ve got you!” Alistair is laughing, holding her against the stone-tiled wall. “I’ve got you. Don’t panic.”

“Panic—I wasn’t panicking!”

“You were, a little bit.”

“Oh—” Aeron clicks her tongue. She pushes his hair back from his face. Her fingers interlace at the nape of his neck and she draws him in closer. “You have something mischievous turning in your pretty head, my love.”

“Hm?” A little smile plays at Alistair’s lips. “Do I?”

“Don’t try playing innocent. It’s as plain as the freckles on your skin.” She runs her gaze over him. “So? What is it?”

He clears his throat. “ _Well_ —it is entirely possible that I might be thinking of something we tried not too long ago—”

“Mm-hm…”

“—and that, _perhaps_ , we might just have a second opportunity for it here.” His fingers wander down Aeron’s sides. He catches her gaze as his fingertips draw lazy circles along the outside of her thighs. “What do you think?”

“Hm…” The Elf chuckles a little. “Tempting, my love. Very tempting. However, I think that you’ve forgotten how that little experiment ended. My back certainly hasn’t yet.”

“Ah. Y-yes. True, we didn’t exactly…succeed that time, _but_ —in my defense,” Alistair counters, “that bookshelf was _supposed_ to have been bolted to the floor. Now it will be, along with all the others in the library! That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

His wife makes some exasperated little sound and shakes her head, though there is a look of amusement on her face. “My dear, your optimism is admirable and one of the many reasons I married you, but I am not about to risk breaking my back again just for a bit of…adventure. Even if it _was_ kind of my idea…”

Alistair grins as he leans in to kiss her cheek. “I’m glad you remembered that, at least.”

“When have I ever avoided taking responsibility for things?”

“Never.” He kisses her lips. “Where’d the cloth go? I’ll do your back, if you like.”

“I would like!” Aeron recovers it, hands it to him with the soap. “Do you really think things would be improved if we got some of these installed?”

“Maybe in the barracks, at least. Might cut down on the number of recruits who show up to morning lineup late.”

“Perhaps…” She glances at him over her shoulder. “Do we really have that many showing up late?”

“It’s worse in the peak of summer and winter,” Alistair notes, “but there’s always at least a handful of newcomers; a few who stay out too late or celebrate too hard after a mission or a successful Joining…”

He hears Aeron make a concerned sound in response, though as his fingers begin finding little knots of tension, he briefly wonders if it is discomfort that he hears instead. His eyes take inventory of old scars. There is the puckered kiss of a sharpened arrowhead near her right shoulder. The fading claw marks from a Blight-affected wolf’s paw still rake jaggedly across the middle of her back. Then there is the scar curving around the space just above her left hip, relatively fresher than the rest. Even now, it gives Alistair pause. The weapon that left it behind was unexpectedly vicious—a manmade claw of white steel, swung about on a chain until it latched onto her body like a hook snagging some unfortunate fish—and when she tried to move, the bandit gave that chain a hard _pull_ —

Aeron’s hand lands over his fingers as they reach the front end of that scar. She looks up at him, brown eyes questioning. “Your thoughts are turning sad.”

Alistair shakes his head. “Not very much, no.” He taps at her shoulder. “You’ve got a bunch of knots need working out.”

“Is that an offer?”

“If you’d like, sure. We don’t have to be anywhere else tonight, do we?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. In the morning, though…” Aeron’s pretty face darkens with a frown. “I’d sooner take on a horde of darkspawn than listen to entitled nobles whine instead of trying to actually solve their problems.”

“Not something to think about for now.” Alistair reaches past her and shuts off the water. “Come on—”

The steam lingers in the air as they dry and dress. Aeron only bothers with smallclothes that better resemble a close-fitting pair of short trousers. When Alistair makes note of this, she only gives a little shrug and comments that she thought he might like them, given how they hug her hips and emphasize the lower curves of her body.

“You weren’t entirely wrong…” he admits, chuckling. “’Course, you could wear a shapeless potato sack—I’d still want you.”

Aeron wrinkles her nose. “A shapeless, itchy potato sack?”

“The most shapeless, itchiest, _ugliest_ potato sack!” Alistair tells her as he approaches the bed. True, it is difficult to picture—what with her currently sitting on her heels, topless, _right in front of him_ —but she doesn’t need to know that. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe it might. Nobody looks attractive covered in…” Her mouth twists a little. “No, wait. I take that back.”

“What?”

“The thought that no one looks attractive covered in scratches.” She grins as she rises up to slide her arms around his neck. “You do. Under certain conditions, of course, but—”

“Oh, I think I know which conditions.” Alistair pats her on the hip. “Let’s get those knots out, shall we?”

“Yes.”

Aeron draws her hair over one shoulder and grabs one of the smaller throw pillows. He tells her to relax, aware of the way she always tenses when he first sets his hands on her back. (He has his guesses as to why, though he has never asked for confirmation.) She is still warm from the shower. The floral scent of the soap rises from her skin. Some of the smaller knots vanish almost instantly under his touch. To the more stubborn ones, Alistair applies the circular pressure of his thumbs. Aeron makes a soft sound, draws in a deep breath. He pauses.

“Am I pressing too hard?”

Aeron’s eyes are closed, but a smile plays on her lips. “Mm-mm.”

So he continues, but not before settling on the edge of the bed beside her. Down her back he goes, kneading out the discomfort and gauging the pressure of his hands. (How long has it been since he last got to do this? It escapes him. Too long.) At the small of her back, Alistair uses the heel of his hand to soothe out the overall tension as he makes his way back up. His fingers trail along the curve of her shoulders, grace down her sides; they curl around her waist and his thumbs press into the muscle of her lower back in a sweeping arc. A soft moan rises from the back of Aeron’s throat. Her ears twitch slightly. She shifts a little under his hands.

“What?”

“Hm?”

“Uncomfortable?” Alistair asks her. “If I’m pressing too hard—”

“No,” Aeron says, and she sounds drowsy. “I quite like it. I love your hands.”

“So you are fond of reminding me.”

“Because it’s true—” She turns onto her back, links her hands together and rests them on the flat plane of her stomach. “One of the worst parts of being physically away from you is not being able to reach for your hands. It’s a comfort thing.”

“Is it?”

“Well…that, and they _are_ so very skillful.” A little bit of her laughter rises up to his ears. “I bet I can guess what you like the most!”

“Oh? You’d be mistaken, because I, in fact, adore it all and miss you completely when you’re away,” Alistair says.

“Do you?”

“Yes.” He amuses himself with circling her navel with his finger. “I adore every last square inch.”

“Even the scars?”

“Of course, the scars. Even if you earned some of them in frightening ways…” His eyes wander to the scar above her left hip well before his finger traces it out again. “You have quite the unnatural talent for scaring years off my life, do you know that?”

“And you don’t occasionally return the favor?” Aeron sits up, taking his left wrist in her hand to better reveal the fading evidence of where a werewolf’s jaws once mauled his forearm. “I’d say my king has done his fair share, hasn’t he?”

“Fair point, I suppose; but, you know, it would be nice if my queen could apply a slightly more defensive strategy in her battles.” Alistair slips his hand free and finds the almost invisible scar where a knife slipped into a gap between two ribs on her right side. “Remember this one?”

“Hm…” Aeron’s mouth twists a little. “To be honest, I’m still uncertain how they managed to get me that time. I barely felt the blade go in.”

A troubled expression flickers across his face. “That kind of talk will never cease to worry me.”

“But at least I have my Berserker training from Oghren to blame for occasionally losing sight of things. How do you explain this one here?”

“Which one?”

“This one.” Aeron taps a horizontal scar on his chest, shortly below his sternum. “It was a…small trident, wasn’t it?”

“A pike,” Alistair corrects. “It had the blade carved so that it was pronged; able to cause more damage going in. Felt like being caught on the world’s largest fork.”

“That’s right. Any higher or deeper, and it…” A darker look passes through his wife’s eyes. “I think that was the closest I came to losing you, that day. The recovery itself was pretty rough, wasn’t it?”

Alistair frowns. “I’ve endured worse. Something always confused me, though—”

“About?”

“What happened right after I got stabbed.” A little smile plays on his lips. “Did I hallucinate it or did you actually jump on that bastard’s back?”

“Aha. That. I…” Aeron looks a little sheepish. “That was no hallucination. I did jump on him—”

“And—?”

“—and I stabbed him in the neck. Repeatedly. Probably more than was required to kill him.” She pushes her hair back from her face. “I don’t really remember. I was a bit cross at the time.”

“Oh, were you?”

“But just a little.”

“Of course.” Alistair’s smile widens. “That notorious Tabris Temper. How it has saved my life time and again!”

“Is it so notorious? Really?” Aeron frowns, scratches an itch on her side. “I think I’m quite the patient person. Level-headed. Rational.”

“ _Off_ the battlefield, maybe, but even then—” He laughs a little at the unamused look she gives him. “Someone said to me once that you seemed made of the fire that burned Andraste. I don’t remember who it was, but…somehow, I don’t think they expected me to accept it as a compliment.”

“Oh, of course not. Most of them are probably still reeling from the idea that, with Amaranthine, I was practically an arlessa—practically their _equal_.” With a roll of her eyes, Aeron gets out of bed long enough to push back the blankets. “I can just imagine how many of them would like to quietly forget than an Elf is the one who stopped the Blight. I’ve seen the way some of them look at me when we’re at court, Alistair. I’ve heard the not-so-quiet whispers, the backhanded compliments—”

“And it bothers you?”

Her gaze doesn’t quite meet his. “Some of it does. The worst of it, when they just… _imply_ things? It’s not—” She shakes her head. Her face briefly scrunches up in discomfort. “I shouldn’t care what they say so much anymore. I’ve proven my worth to them when I didn’t need to. I should be used to it by now, in fact—I mean, it’s only more of the same of what I’ve gotten my entire life, right?—but it—I mean… On some level, I just expected…”

“What?”

“Respect.” Aeron looks up. “Might, honor, courage—if these are things Ferelden values in its champions, then why do so many of them still treat me like I should be scrubbing their floors? Why am I expected to mediate their messes when they see no problem joking that I seduced you away from your birthright?”

It is a knee-jerk reaction to deny that it happens, one Alistair feels guilty for even as he suppresses the urge to act on it. They _do_ say things like that—have said them, have implied worse—and in his presence, no less! And what can he do? Same as he has always done. Grimace and bear it. Praise her and redirect them towards his own faults with a single turn of phrase. Learn when to just let their words go, to let the anger slip away from him. Remember that Aeron does not need each of these battles fought for her. Spend the time and energy instead on providing her a place where she can be safe from their barbs. Dress the wounds unseen. Respect the hidden scars that have left her heart so strongly armored. Love her more than anyone could ever possibly detest her presence. Desire her more than they could ever desire to see her fail.

Isn’t that what he vowed to do the day he pledged himself to her?

Perhaps not in so many words, and certainly even well before that day, but…

Aeron heaves a little sigh. “I’m sorry. I—”

Alistair blinks. “Why—?”

“It’s these visits to court. They always put me on edge—”

“There’s no need for you to apologize.” He gathers up her hands in his and kisses her fingers. “None. If anyone has to, it should be me—”

“For what?”

“I may have…told a little fib. Seems I do, in fact, have a favorite part.”

“Oh, you _do_?” Aeron’s eyes brighten a little. “What am I to make of this, you telling little lies?”

“I meant no harm in it! I promise.”

“Hmm. I _might_ be inclined to forgive you—”

“ _Would you,_ now? How very gracious!” With a touch of amusement in his eyes, Alistair shifts, reaches for his wife; half pins her to the bed and showers her with kisses. “Truly, I am blessed to have the mercy of such a noble hero. Truly, I am!”

“Alistair—!” She laughs. “Alistair, I said only that I _might_ —!”

“Oh, but reconsider! Please reconsider!” he cries, laughing along with her, pressing more kisses to her cheeks and lips. “Surely—surely there is _something_ I can do? Some rite I can perform to win back your favor? Just name the price to pay—”

But all Aeron can do is laugh and let her husband carry on. The gloom dissolves in deference to warm affection. It is good. Proper. Alistair lets her shift their weight, lets her pin him underneath her hips and slender hands. The laughter fades into the hush of recovering breath. Aeron’s hair hangs down over both shoulders. It tickles Alistair’s chest as she cups his face in her hands and kisses him.

“I think I win,” she murmurs.

He licks his lips, contemplating how he might get another kiss from her. “Yes. I think so.”

Admitting defeat does not, alas, work. “So are you going to tell me, then?”

“Hm?”

“About what your favorite part is,” Aeron reminds him. “You have me very curious now, Mr. Shapeless Potato Sack.”

“I stand by my earlier statement. The _ugliest_ of potato sacks—”

“Yes, yes, so you’ve said. But—”

“It’s your heart.” Alistair taps a finger to center of her chest. Aeron takes his hand in hers, weaving their fingers together. “When I first met you, it was obvious that you were one of the most beautiful women I’d met. I didn’t even think about… A-and maybe that was something of my own mistake, not paying enough attention to those differences at first, but…I was a bit distracted.”

“By how pretty you thought I was?” she asks, grinning.

“By—yes, that, _but_ …how you carried yourself on and off the field. I saw how you defended those who needed your strength, how much you gave of yourself, and…when you let me, at least, I saw how vulnerable you were, too. How angry… You had so much more anger back then, didn’t you? Just underneath the surface—”

“I had a mountain’s worth of reasons to be,” Aeron points out. “My cousin, the Tevinter slavers. Hell, growing up in an Alienage sort of just makes you kind of an angry person by default—”

“Still, I was worried it would hurt you in the long run. But it didn’t, did it? It hasn’t.” Alistair’s voice drops. “There have been moments when I’ve been so scared that you were going to break, that I would lose you, and you’ve only come back stronger. More determined. More alive. And I remember thinking—when I realized I was falling in love with you, I mean—I remember thinking, ‘Maker, if you can just make me a tenth worthy of earning a place in that woman’s heart, I’d be the happiest of men.’”

Alistair pauses, looking up at her with the sort of reverence that might get him branded a heretic by more conservative followers of Andraste.

“I’m still not entirely sure that I’m worthy, but…I have you, and I am always grateful for that.” He pulls her down gently, just low enough that he can press a kiss to that spot above her heart, and he feels a small shiver ripple under her skin. “I love you, and I love that you are strong, and I would trade that for nothing else.”

Aeron looks down at him. “And you continue to insist that you’re so poor with words.”

“I am! You just… You bring it out of me or something. Who knows.” Alistair waves a hand. “But, um, does this mean I’m forgiven then?”

“Forgiven.” She kisses his forehead and it feels like a blessing. “Forgotten.”


End file.
